


Learning How To Crawl

by necroesthe



Series: Of Sheep and Goats [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-07-05 17:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necroesthe/pseuds/necroesthe
Summary: Connor doesn't deviate. Unfortunately, RK900 does.





	1. Chapter 1

**December 5, 2038**

Lieutenant Anderson’s garage is a coffin of memoirs both good and bad. Boxes of crayola artwork and toys are lined against the wall, neatly stacked. A toddler walker sits in the corner; vivid colors muted by a thick layer of dust, and besides it is a corn popper, a booster seat, and a baseball launcher.

It is desolate.

The only sounds in the house are snuffles via Sumo, who is investigating Lieutenant Anderson in the kitchen. Last Conrad checked, Lieutenant Anderson was laying face down in the kitchen, having forced himself into yet another ethylic coma. A dangerous endeavor, amplified by the broken window, the 40% unemployment ravaging Detroit and its crime rate.

He doubts that anything changed in the last 5 minutes.

Still, he should do something about it.

Conrad punches on the dryer. It’s an old model, incapable of even receiving messages. The company no longer manufactures parts, rendering it useless once something breaks down.

Lieutenant Anderson seems fond of obsolete things.

He drags Lieutenant Anderson to his bedroom, mindful of the dog that comes sniffing after him. Sumo bumps his wet snout on Conrad’s knee and wags his tail, clearly expecting physical affection.

Sumo, like the rest of his species, is smart– having realized the connection between badgering a person and receiving attention. Conrad is not a person, however, and is immune to puppy dog eyes.

Still, he indulges the dog and bumps him back.

Once Conrad manages to pull Lieutenant Anderson onto the bed, Conrad shove him into a position that minimizes the possibility of him choking on his own vomit and dying. Lieutenant Anderson groans, and a word falls from his mouth alongside a thick dollop of saliva.

Saved into memory core. Replay. Analyze.

Ignore.

Sumo follows him out the door.

Conrad connects to the DPD database. His LED light spinning a voracious yellow as it cross references older cases and processes newer ones.

Conrad flits through them.

Runaway androids, a store robbery, aggravated assault.

Lieutenant Anderson, despite his tumultuous relationship with RK800 and new viewpoint on androids, is still in charge of the deviancy cases. Poor attendance and a lack of sobriety does not completely negate his ability to hunt down perpetrators.

Lieutenant Anderson, who is currently incapacitated.

Conrad clicks his tongue. He had already interrupted Lieutenant Anderson’s sleep yesterday. Tossing him into bathtub again wear it– rendering the action ineffective.

Anyway, Lieutenant Anderson is already asleep. He might as well continue.

Conrad sets the timer.

Outside, amongst the harsh rain, the wind howls; redirecting droplets and stirring the bad humor that resides deep within the city– permeating the edges of consciousness and being, and infecting the seeds. The metal of abandoned structures, rusted and aged, releases a mournful cry that reverberates throughout the area, comforting the damned and damning the weary.

Conrad sits on the back primply, back ramrod straight. Sumo, ignorant of his own size, clambers over him.

Conrad examines his predecessor’s memories for the one hundred sixty third time.

Connor, whose social relations program deigned him a supposed partiality for dogs. Connor, who executed the deviant leader Markus. Connor, whose name makes his stomach burn and veins constrict, and Connor–

Deactivated and disassembled.

Conrad scratches the back of Sumo’s ears.

 

**December 6, 2038**

Exactly 7 hours later, at 6:12:49, Conrad stands over Lieutenant Anderson and bangs a pot and a pan together– the latter used to make, as they call, “An American Breakfast”. It is the embodiment of a heart attack, yet is a step toward weaning the lieutenant off of fast food.

“Lieutenant, wake up,” Conrad says between clangs. “Breakfast is ready.”

Lieutenant Anderson groans. He pulls the covers over his head, and shoves his head under his pillow in a pathetic attempt to cancel out the noise. “Fuck off Nines.”

“Conrad, Lieutenant.” He increases the frequency of the collisions, and to his pleasure, Sumo begins to bark.

“Nines. Whatever. Don’t you have something better to do?”

Work, for one. But he can’t do that without human supervision.

Conrad’s arms fall to his sides. “I took Sumo out for a walk earlier. I think the neighboring Shepherd would like to make German Bernards.”

Lieutenant Anderson doubles takes, then punches Conrad when his blanket is torn away.

“I refused. Do you think I made the right call Lieutenant?”

“Yeah sure whatever.” Lieutenant Anderson rubs his arms, willing the goosebumps away. He squints out the window. “Jesus, it’s still dark. I could’ve slept at least another hour.”

“That would’ve woken you up in the middle of an REM cycle, making you feel more tired.” Conrad spins on his heels, pots and pans still in his hands.

“I will see you at the table in 5 minutes. Be there...”

His social relations program whirs. “Or be square.”

 

They arrive at the station at 9:54:06. Conrad sits at his desk, right across from Lieutenant Anderson, and idly recalibrates as he sifts 300 more cases. Officer Miller is in the office talking with Captain Fowler, and to the right is Detective Reed and Officer Chen– sitting in the breakroom, drinking coffee that Lieutenant Anderson has described as “literal shit”.

It definitely explains why Detective Reed insists on drinking it.

Cases from before the revolution have been registered null– Cyberlife in the process of doling out reparations for families who have lost their android, have been assaulted, or have simply been murdered. The previous existing androids have systematically been gathered and disassembled to stamp out any hint of deviancy, creating a new generation of machines.

Conrad is part of that generation.

Android sales are at an all time low .One month isn’t enough for Cyberlife to rebuild their relationship with their customers.

Sex clubs are a bit iffy– some having closed down in fear of another Graham, alongside the revamped models in the PL series due to the deviant leader’s right hand man being a from that line.

Blonde male androids certainly refresh memories of Emma Philips was dangled off a building after her father was shot.

How terrible.

There are still stragglers, deviants who escaped through the cracks but Conrad is very good at hunting them down. He is even better at executing them.

Lieutenant Anderson hates it. Loathes it. He shouts and screams and has even knocked the gun out of Conrad’s hand a couple times. Conrad points out there are two hundred thousand RK900s in circulation. If he doesn’t execute the deviant, another one will.

Lieutenant Anderson drinks himself into oblivion, holes himself in his room for a couple hours playing russian roulette with a bunch of blanks (Conrad had disposed of the bullets and scans the house ever twelve hours to make sure it stays that way), then is later dragged out his misery by Conrad, who is very determined to fulfill his purpose.

Lieutenant Anderson is very ashamed to be a regular at the Eden Club.

Spin, twirl, stop.

Human employment increased drastically, and manual automobiles are making a comeback.

It’s a new era.

Spin, twirl, stop.

He catches Detective Reed’s eye.

_Tin can,_ Detective Reed mouths and slurps at his coffee.

The noise is obscene. Lieutenant Anderson shudders.

Conrad feels his own lips curling in response. Before he knows it, his fist is raised with a pen neatly wedged between his ring and middle finger– tip pointing to the sky.

Detective Reed leaps to his feet. He stomps towards Conrad; face red and veins bulging.

Spin, twirl, stop.

Spin, twirl, stop.

Officer Miller is dismissed. Captain Fowler looks out the window, sees Detective Reed, and manages to twist his face into a well worn expression of frustration as Conrad jabs his pen into Detective Reed’s solar plexus.

Image saved into memory core. Emailed to Lieutenant Anderson.

Captain Fowler calls them both to the office.

“Nines, if you spin that pen one more time I swear to God I will–”

AUDIO PROCESSORS: OFF

RECALIBRATING…

RECALIBRATING…

RECALIBRATING…

 

 

**December 9, 2038**

It doesn’t always rain in Detroit. Sometimes, there is sunlight and a clear sky for the puddles to reflect. The air is crisp and sharp, and the concrete exudes petrichor. Still, the wind howls. The trees, helpless in their disposition, can only quiver.

“It went ape shit on me!” Caroline Velasquez, age 32, says in the comfort of her own home, face splotched with purple. Her eye is swollen shut and there is a cut on her bottom lip that hasn't scabbed over yet. Her arms are in similar condition. “Went all fuckin’ psycho!”

A plume of smoke creeps out her mouth. She knocks her cigarette against the rim of ashtray, embers still aglow, and brings it back to her mouth.

The smoke had permeated throughout the house– had sunk into the walls and etched itself onto the floors until it became inseparable from the larger entity that houses it.

“I see,” Lieutenant Anderson says as Conrad pokes around, peering into a jug. “What can you tell me about the android?”

It contains ashes. When neither Velasquez and Lieutenant Anderson are looking, he sticks his index and middle finger in and brings it to his mouth.

They are not cigarette ashes, but the remains of Augustina Velasquez, the maternal grandmother of Caroline Velasquez who died 4 years, 3 months, and 28 days ago at the tender age of 82.

Conrad ‘s face twists. He wipes his hands on his pants and flees to the kitchen, where there is a fresh splatter of thirium across the wall– as if someone flicked a blue paintbrush several times.

There are gouges on the wall, light ones imperceptible to the human eye, and the corner of the counter is slightly chipped. All around the house is evaporated thirium, age ranging from years to months to days.

Velasquez seems to have anger issues.

“So what’s your little robot called?” Velasquez asks from the living room, her voice cracking like a bunch of dry twigs.

“Nines,” Lieutenant Anderson responds. He clears his throat. “How long have you…”

The thirium droplets exit the kitchen and lead into the hallway. Paint is peeling off the wall and dollar store paintings are smattered across without rhyme or reason, hiding several holes that are conveniently fist-shaped.

Conrad puts the painting back quietly and follows the trail at his feet– noting the dented door knob, and takes a moment to admire the stress levels required to break a window instead of simply opening it.

The trail goes over the sill then takes a sharp left, reconvening on a sidewalk and following it.

With all the evidence collected, Conrad reconstructs it. Starting from the initial strike in the living room, to the battery in the kitchen, the clawing and lashing, and the subsequent, frantic escape. He presses the pads of his index and middle finger and brings the thirium to his lips tongue swiping over.

He processes the information.

Conrad spins on his heels and returns to the living room. Velasquez is finished talking. Her hands are clenched– scraped knuckles bone white.

She is angry. Conrad wonders why.

Lieutenant Anderson says something, rude enough to turn Velasquez’s face a splotchy red, not unlike pepperoni on a pizza, and glances at Conrad. He jerks his head in the direction of the door almost violently.

“We’re done. Nines let’s go.”

“Coming Lieutenant.”

Outside is cloudy. Clouds are beginning to congregate high above Detroit and the winds only grow harsher. An orange traffic cone rolls down the street, chased by a PR200 with dead fish eyes.

Conrad wonders his eyes look like that as well.

“So what did you find?” Lieutenant Anderson shoves his hands his pocket. He walks slowly down the concrete path, meandering.

Conrad follows.

“Classic domestic android deviancy.” He says. “Android is damaged, attacks owner, then runs away. Another Ortiz, so to speak.”

“Ortiz, huh?” Lieutenant Anderson says. He stares at the neighborhood in front of him, looking beyond the dilapidated building and dented cars. His voice is drifts to nothingness.

Conrad shifts his weight. He unclips a pen from an inside pocket in his jacket and whirls it.

“The suspect couldn't have gone far,” He says. “The amount of thirium lost implies an important biocompoment was damaged.”

He looks down at the sidewalk, at the not-yet evaporated drops of thirium. “Permission to pursue?”

Lieutenant Anderson’s face twists. “Permission to pursue? Just fucking go for it Nines.”

_It’s not like you’ll listen to me_ , goes unsaid. However, according to the Living Well article, it’s the thought that counts.

 

Conrad darts off, breaking into a sprint, and sends Lieutenant Anderson a text message to remind him that his location can be tracked via the Cyberlife App.

He ignores Lieutenant Anderson's confession to deleting it.

 

Rain is a gift from mother nature, a remnant of great floods.

Conrad enters the junkyard– imprints on the soft dirt transitioning to dark smears against the carcasses beneath as he grinds his heel on optimistic scraps and shatters the fingers of grabby ones.

“You don’t need to hide,” Conrad says, knife spinning between his fingers. He’s walking slowly– prowling. The deviant is here, injured, and something inside him whirs frantically; filling his veins with thirium and maintaining his body calibration at 99.8%.

His lips twitch.

Purpose. He’s fulfilling his purpose.

“You’re going to deactivate either way.” He says. His eyes roam the terrace, instinctively scanning model type and serial number. As expected, there are many PL600s and AX400s; none compatible.

Something creaks, unnatural even with crawling torsos and shambling legs. Conrad creeps toward it.

The knife twirls in his hand faster, cutting through the air and snapping almost angrily. Tense, building up energy, storing and storing. A coiled wire, ready to spring.

Conrad stills, halting all movement.

He listens to the wind, to the groans and the cries and the shrieks and the sobs– to everything the junkyard has to offer and has to take.

A creak, a shuffle.

The AP800 peers around the corner.

Conrad hurls his knife.

 

“Lieutenant Anderson, the deviant has been neutralized,” He says, LED light a sickly yellow. “I’m in an android junkyard.”

“Nines, what–”

“Don’t worry, everything is under control. I’m sending you the address.”

Conrad terminates the call before Lieutenant Anderson can respond.

 

The world is always a muted sort of grey whenever he completes an objective. Dull and boring and slightly unappealing, it makes sitting at a charging station seem like worthwhile endeavor and leaves a gaping hole in his chest that widens and widens with every passing second.

It’s hideous.

Lieutenant Anderson will arrive at the junkyard in approximately 4 minutes and 52 seconds. He will be angry that Conrad didn't tell him the location earlier, be disgusted in the corpse, then be disappointed that Conrad didn't allow the deviant to go free like Connor.

Connor, who is sitting 5 feet away, dismantled and deactivated.

Immediately, something inside him shifts. A deluge of error notifications flood his vision, red hot and angry. Conrad shoves them to side, ignores the “software instability” popping in the corner and starts fixing his hair.

He wipes the thirium off his knife and uses the blade as a mirror. He removes flecks of mud on his face,. He adjusts his collar, then smooths his hair, allowing only a single curl to fall over his forehead.

Now presentable, he strides over to Connor’s side.

And Connor is a mess.

He’s a little more than a torso and a head with about a quarter of thigh attached to his pelvis. Frayed wires peep out where his limbs were torn, and his thirium regulator is cracked. Any thirium left in him had long evaporated.

Conrad traces the serial number imprinted on Connor’s face with reverence. He cups Connor’s face– sliding his hand against the cold slick chassis; smearing thirium. The pads of his fingers crawl up Connor’s jaw and his thumb creeps across Connor’s cheek.

It’s sad, Conrad thinks, staring into Connor’s glassy brown eyes, seeing his own reflection. To see such a state of the art machine be reduced to this. To be mutilated and left to rust alongside gardeners and cooks and janitors.

To be left to rot alongside deviants.

More errors reports pop up, louder than ever, blinding him. Amanda is scolding him, frigid voice clinging onto his skin viciously, like an angry January frost. His objectives glitch rearranging and self encrypting themselves. From english to atbash to cipher to atbash to binary to binary to binary–

Lieutenant Anderson’s voice yanks him back to Detroit. The notifications disappear.

“Nines, where the hell are you? Fucking hell, this place gives me the creeps…”

Lieutenant Anderson is angry. Frustrated. Conrad gives Connor one last look and spins on his heels.

“Coming Lieutenant!”

“You better come soon. This place is a nightma– Jesus christ, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Conrad tilts his head. “Is something the matter, Lieutenant?”

“What do you think?” Lieutenant Anderson snaps.

Conrad glances down at the deviant, drenched in thirium. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it doesn’t leave any lasting stains on your car.”

“That isn’t the point Nines.” Lieutenant Anderson clicks his tongue.

He sighs, aging another 50 years, and for a moment, looks tired. Lieutenant Anderson looks tired and small and weathered. Fragile as glass, brittle as a twig. Then he sneers and attacks Conrad’s lack of humanity.

Conrad isn’t a deviant, and thus, does not care.

 

The DPD reacts similarly to Conrad dragging a deactivated deviant by the hair, but at least he isn’t wasting time sitting in the break room, drinking mediocre coffee that only a person with shit taste would enjoy.

Detective Reed isn’t happy about that assessment.

Conrad spins his pen and informs Detective Reed that the knife used to incapacitate the deviant is still on his person, clipped to the inside of his thirium stained jacket.

There is a pressure that wasn’t there in him before, plaguing his chest, compressing his wires and squeezing– twisting until they’re one tenth of what they used to be. He replays Connor’s memories, flips through them, analyzes them for the one hundred sixty fourth time and then compares it to the pale imitation he saw in the junkyard.

RK800, executioner of the deviant king, reduced to _that._

The pen in his hand snaps. Ink dribbles down his palm, seeping into his skin and traveling down his arm, staining his black dress shirt.

Detective Reed is still looking at him, unable to decide whether he should remain in his normal state of stupid fury or experience a more productive one– like fear and respect.

Conrad can see every pore on his face, the little hairs in his nostrils and the boogers attached. He sees every hair follicle and the oil clinging to the limp strands. He sees the dead skin hanging off his cracked lips, the red capillaries on his eyes, and the lack of similarity between his eyebrows.

Even by human standards, Detective Reed is ugly.

Conrad bares his teeth, a poor facsimile of a smile, and when Detective Reed lurches back as if stung, tries to wink.

He is not meant to wink. His software instability rises.

 

 

**December 10, 2038**

The pots and pans return. Conrad bangs them together, harder than ever.

It’s an effective tactic, but like the cold water, should not be used excessively.

Lieutenant Anderson wraps his pillow around his head, clamping it over his ears.

“Wake up Lieutenant, I have something I think you’d like.” Conrad says. “You should get it before it gets cold.”

“Oh yeah?” Lieutenant Andersons says muzzily. “Well guess what. I’ve got something for you.”

He holds out his arm, holding out a closed fist. “It’s right here.”

“What is it, Lieutenant?” He asks, curiosity tugging at him; selfish and needy.

It could be coin, a case of lead, or even a wadded piece of paper with gun attached. A shiny Coca Cola bottle cap with wavy sharp edges, or a well worn eraser that devolved into a grey blob after years of use.

Conrad hopes it’s a coin. Connor’s coin.

Lieutenant Anderson grins, gap toothed and cocky. “This.”

He extends his middle finger.

Conrad’s face shutters.

 

 

**December 12, 2038**

At 00:03 Conrad takes Sumo out for a walk, apprehends the man who tries to mug him, and then steals Lieutenant Anderson’s car.

Not steal. Borrow.

Steal is such a misleading word that implies Conrad is a thief. He is not a thief, but a deviant hunter. One of two hundred thousand, ready to eradicate vectors of that stringent line of code.

And if he were to steal a car, it wouldn’t be Lieutenant Anderson’s. The engine is rudimentary at best and horrendous at worst. The contraption, metal death trap held together by duct tape and sheer will, is a health hazard.

Conrad suspects that if you were to nick yourself on it, you would be infected with tetanus.

He pulls up at the junkyard and kicks down a WR400 trying to crawl out.

_North,_ he thinks. But North is dead, and so is Simon and Josh and everyone else who supported the deviant leader.

The body careens down the slope. It lands with a thud, and its head rolls away.

He kicks at it until he reaches a mound of dirty snow. Conrad brushes it away, pieces sticking to the hem of his jacket, and keeps on brushing until he finds Connor; skinless and broken and in the exact same place as before.

Conrad wraps his jacket around Connor before lifting him up– shielding him from the world that threw him away. His wires swings from the momentum, swishing side to side in conjunction with every step Conrad takes.

Connor fits snugly on his lap, between the steering wheel and his chest. There is no need to pull the seat back of adjust the rearview mirror. He and Lieutenant Anderson are the exact same height.

Conrad takes a different route home. A longer route that involves driving through unfavorable neighborhoods and passing by shifty people entering shifty alleyways to do shifty things. They sneer at Conrad, catching sight of his LED.

Conrad sneers back. He takes a page out of Lieutenant Anderson’s book gives them the bird.

 

Entering Lieutenant Anderson’s house is a tedious process that involves leaping through the broken window, unlocking the front door, getting Connor, then locking the front door again. Sumo wags his tail.

Conrad pats his head to appease him, then places Connor on the kitchen table that he cleaned the day before.

The entire house is sparkling and smells faintly of lemon. Conrad even vacuumed himself to get rid of any fur Sumo managed to impart on him.

Still standing up, he picks Connor apart, piece by piece with the skin of his hands retracted. He plucks out auditory processors, scoops out visual ones, and tugs his damaged heart. He breaks Connor down to his bare essentials: sugar and spice.

Then he begins to fix him.

He extricates any wires that have short circuited, boards that have been scratched, and sifts them into separate piles: one for salvageable materials, another for functioning, and anything else that’s better off in the trash.

There is rust to remove and biocomponents to buy. The chassis need to be smoothed down and finished, the lense of his eyes are scratched and Connor is missing limbs.

There is work to be done.

Conrad packs him away, hiding him between the dusty cardboard boxes and neglected tricycles. Connor is swaddled in Conrad’s jacket.

He folds the lid, shunning the glowing blue triangle, and shuts the garage door with a soft click.

The house is still. Quiet. Two soft snores reverberate throughout and the rising sun bathes the room a gentle blue– a color only mornings are capable of creating.

Software instabilities mar tranquility of the scene. Conrad disconnects his visual processors, and when Amanda begins to whisper, his auditory ones as well.

He submerges himself in darkness.The ground is solid beneath his feet and thirium pumps through his veins, flowing.

It takes nine steps to reach the kitchen and 4 to lean against the counter. Conrad drums his fingers on the marble countertop; feeling its smoothness.

He envisions the rest of the kitchen, pulling up the memory of the past ten minutes. The chairs are slightly skewed, the faucet turned minutely to the left. The records collecting dust in the living room, Sumo laying in front of the television, sleeping, and Lieutenant Anderson himself; unconscious.

Lastly, the thinks of Connor all alone in the garage with only dust and bugs for company. Alone in the Cyberlife headquarters, awaiting deactivation. In Jericho and in the junkyard.

The word flickers back into sight. The faucet is dripping loudly and Sumo is sleeping on the couch, spreading fur all over the cushions and pillows. Clicking his tongue, Conrad orders another uniform.

He cannot dawdle. There is work to be done.


	2. Chapter 2

**December 18, 2038**

If Lieutenant Anderson’s garage is a coffin of memoirs, the Detective Reed’s apartment is a plastic bag full of air.

The walls are uneven and discolored—tinged a sickly yellow— and the thin walls do nothing to stifle the scuttling of the neighbors, the cockroaches beneath the kitchen table, and rats below the floorboards.

The kitchen is approximately the size of an office cubicle, maybe smaller, and the tiled countertops are plagued by grout. Conrad peers into the refrigerator, which contains half a pack of energy drinks, leftover chinese food, and a moldy carrot; hidden behind equally moldy containers of unknown substances that were, at one point, considered food.

Conrad closes the door.

In the corner of the living room is a burgundy sofa that smells faintly of curdled milk. Strands of white cat fur litter the cushion, standing out like maggots in a sea of red. The culprit is an exotic— born July 8, 2034 and female. She sits curled up, wedged between the cushions; tail lazily swishing to and fro as she watches Conrad with contemplative slitted blue eyes.

Her face is flat. Conrad does not know how Detective Reed obtained such a desired breed, but rubs his wrist warily, eyeing the droplets of thirium from last week’s visit.

The coffee table is small and robust. Besides the dead cactus is an ashtray, and besides the ashtray is a manila folder containing homicide cases from the previous 24 hours—annotated and highlighted with sticky notes attached as needed. It’s color coded.

He returns the folder to its proper place and creeps past the bathroom door, muting his footsteps.

He enters the bedroom. It is messy. Clothes lay haphazard on the floor and there is a half eaten bag of croutons. Ants poke around it curiously, yet lack the courage to enter. Cork boards with encrypted cases cling to the wall with an unholy fervor alongside band posters. The edges are slightly ripped, and there are small creases signifying its age. On the dresser is a black game console from 2011.

Next to it is a gun.

It’s the standard DPD provided handgun. Conrad dismantles it and then pieces it back together, pleased to see at least one detective in the DPD is practicing proper weapon maintenance.

Still, it could be better. There are fingerprint smudges and traces of dirt in the corners; a perfect place for bacteria to multiply and swell and creep onto flesh and into cuts.

The shower stops running, and the bathroom door opens with a loud creak.

Conrad twirls the gun around his index finger. He turns to the entrance and waits for Detective Reed to notice his presence.

Detective Reed doesn’t. He is about to fling off his towel when Connor clears his throat.

Detective Reed jolts, startled, and swears furiously. The towel hanging around his waist loosens slightly. Dark curls poke out, and droplets of water crawl down his abdomen, over his muscles and pale scars.

Detective Reed pulls the towel up.

His face, which lacks the same pleasing aesthetic as the rest of his body, is flushed, but whether it’s from the bathroom humidity, anger, or embarrassment is unknown. Perhaps it’s a combination of all three.

His face twists, forming creases between his eyebrows. The bulging veins on his neck and his clenched fists with bone-white knuckles indicate that he is experiencing anger alongside embarrassment, which feeds the sharp flames of hatred.

“There is a double homicide at 1177 Woodword Avenue.” Conrad says, ducking at the shoe thrown his way. It dents the drywall, eliciting more furious curses. “It was reported about an hour ago.”

Detective Reed shrieks, lips moving, forming a derogatory phrase as well as something potentially substantial. However, it isn’t substantial enough for Conrad to care.

Conrad yawns, an action that implies boredom, and steps out before Detective Reed tries to manhandle him. His LED light spins a lazy blue.

Imitating human behavior is difficult.

“Hurry up Detective, before they assign another RK900 to take your place.”

Detective Reed swings his fist.

Detective Reed fractures his wrist.

Conrad locates the bandages.

 

Detective Reed is curled up in the front passenger seat, pressing a ziplock bag of half melted ice to his swaddled hand. His jaw is clenched, offset by the slow and carefully measured breathes he takes.

It is the box breathing technique where a person inhales, holds, and exhales for four seconds. The purpose is to calm the user, as well as lower stress.

Conrad has his doubts.

“You should consider going to the hospital, Detective,” He says, turning right.

The road is lonely. The sidewalk is not. People linger and lurk, watching with beady wary eyes, and hiding their faces beneath woolen beanies and worn turtlenecks. Misery plagues the air, emphasized by the snow falling upon them. Their teeth chatter, their skin pales.

Conrad keeps driving.

“You should consider minding your own business.” Detective Reed snaps.

Detective Reed is standard human. He is mediocre and has a tendency to take things personally regardless of their validity.

“You’re a liability, Detective. I should be partnered with Detective Collins while you recover.”

Detective Collins is the only stable detective in the precinct. None of his children are dead and he is very much in love with his wife, who reciprocates his feelings. Best of all, he isn’t constantly trying to measure up to the ghost of the Lieutenant Anderson.

“Collins?” Detective Reed sputters. “You’d rather be with that doughy bastard?”

“Yes.”

Ideally, he’d be paired with Lieutenant Anderson. But there are laws against humans working seven days a week, causing Conrad to be stuck with Detective Reed on Lieutenant Anderson’s days off.

It is cruel to give Lieutenant Anderson free weekends. He doesn’t even have a family to spend it with.

“Why?” Detective Reed asks.

“Because his wrist isn’t broken.” Conrad says. He eyes the radio. “Do you want to listen to something, Detective? Perhaps pop will cheer you up.”

Pop. Music with energy.

“I’m not a child.” Detective Reed says mullishly, but does not throw a fit when rock music blasts the car. The windows rattle, and

Rock music is strange. Conrad does not know if he likes it, but for Connor, he’ll cope.

 

He car swerves to the right and Detective Reed’s head slams into the window. Detective Reed swears violently.

“We’re here.” Conrad announces and exits the car.

The building towers over them, music creeping out the entrance and luring customers with its siren call. The beat is entrancing, hypnotizing, and bright pink-purple lights draw them in like a moth to an open flame; scorching them with desire and leaving them desperate for more,

The sexiest androids in town.

Eden Club.

 

The crime scene is easy to find, the door caged by a yellow holographic strip. Conrad pushes the door open and is immediately struck by an overwhelming metallic scent that burns his olfactory receptors.

Detective Reed gags. He buries his nose into the crook of his elbow; into the faux leather of his jacket.

“Oh, thank god you’re here.” Detective Collins says, nose hidden behind an extended turtleneck. “We can’t identify their bodies without looking at the electronic records, but there’s a system error. But it is a double homicide; a gruesome one.”

His face is pinched, paler than usual, and his voice holds a thin, thin tremor. A quiver that reveals unexpected vulnerability.

Detective Collins is unsettled by the murder.

“We’ll take it from here.” Detective Reed says.

Detective Collins notices the bandages poking out of Detective Reed’s sleeve. “Is your hand okay? What happened?”

“Nothing.” Detective Reed snaps. “Now go away before your wife leaves you.”

Detective Collins laughs, good natured as always. “Aren’t you lucky, Reed? To not have anyone waiting for you at home.”

Conrad grabs the collar of Detective Reed’s jacket and pulls him back. He kicks Detective Reed’s ankle for good measure. “Take the rest of the day off, Detective. We’ll handle it from here.”

Detective Collin clasps a hand on Conrad’s shoulder. “Don’t work yourself too hard, you hear me? I get that androids don’t need to sleep, but that doesn’t mean you should burn yourself out. You might overheat.”

Conrad is too advanced to overheat. He isn’t a computer from the 90s. Still, the gesture is nice so he nods. “I’ll take it into consideration.”

Finally finished with social obligations, Detective Collins flees the scene. Detective Reed wrangles his way out of Conrad’s grip and scowls, stepping away until he’s out of arm reach.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

Conrad wipes his hands on his pants. “Then don’t try me.”

 

The crime scene is brutal. Two heads bashed in until skull fragments and grey brain matter are splattered across the room; blood coating the floor like a fine layer of paint. Islands of teeth float in the sea of red, sometimes trapped between clumps of hair, still attached to the scalp.

The blood in question is a mixture of type A+ and type B-, their agglutination invisible to the naked human eye; antibodies bind together intrinsically and fatally—separation impossible.

Annie Lee and Leelah Simmons. Two teenagers fresh out of high school in their freshman year of college. Bright eyed and bushy tailed; so eager to have fun that they induced deviancy in the android and died.

Conrad swirls his tongue around his fingers, licking up every drop; cleaning the digits. His mouth tingles, systems sterilizing analyzers, and he hums.

It’s been quiet lately. Too quiet.

He checks Detective Reed, who is standing over the sink with an indiscernible look on his face. He’s thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

It makes Conrad think too, and he picks his current evidence apart, then pieces it together, reconstructing the fragments into a quilt that tells a story with misshapen vague characters, their defining characteristics scraped off and thrown away.

He looks down the sink too. The silence is unproductive.

Conrad tries to break it. He recalibrates. “It was a crime of passion.”

“A crime of passion.” Detective Reed parrots. His eyes don’t leave the murder weapon.

“You’re aware of the Graham case?”

“Who isn’t?”

Classic response. Conrad clears his throat. “Then we’ll follow the Graham protocols. Let’s go to the lobby.”

The knife spins between his fingers, fast and fluent, blade cutting air; reflecting the pink-purple lights that catched the engraved serial number. He walks slowly, mindful to avoid blood, but doesn’t leave the room until Detective Reed is at his heels.

The door shuts.

The strap-on sits in the sink, untouched.

 

Detective Reed rents a sexbot. Conrad probes its memories, then graciously gives Detective Reed the task of making it return to its display.

“No, don’t touch me, you plastic fuck. Go away. Shoo, shoo!”

Conrad frowns, following the path of memories. Eden Club deviants always congregate at the staff room. He supposes it’s so they can blend in amongst the displays and access the thirium canisters to replenish themselves before engaging the outside world.

Still, it gets a little droll apprehending one sexbot after another in the same location.

And, despite the patterns, he cannot rush to the staff room. Conrad jerks his head at a another sex android, a HK600.

“Ugh,” Detective Reed says, pressing his hand to the screen. His bank account dips further, and Conrad takes great pleasure in the knowledge that the expenses could be mitigated by providing Detective Reed a discount, associated with Lieutenant Anderson’s unfortunate membership to the establishment.

The android winks and walks up to Detective Reed, staring at him with hooded eyes, clouded with desire. Its hand crawls up his arm, stroking the firm muscle beneath before going lower and lower—

It wants the gun.

Conrad grabs its neck with both hands, skin retracting as he forces a memory probe, and twists.  The metal snaps, and its head comes off with a soft pop, and a fountain of thirium bursts, spurting all over he and Detective Reed.

Its face is twisted, trapped in a scream that never sounded. Even when amidst its violation, the android manages to maintain its innate beauty—perfection hardwired and hammered until nothing else remains.

Conrad tosses it to the side.

“There are more to exterminate. Come on.”

Detective Reed eyes the decapitated head wearily. “More of them?”

“The initial deviant, a WR500, is inducing deviancy in other androids by forcing its memories into them. It overloads them.”

The statement makes Detective Reed curse.

Conrad looks back at all the androids in the displays and on the poles and remembers the cluster in the staff room.

He clicks his tongue. He begins to order another uniform.

After a moment’s contemplation, orders extra thirium.

  


Eight deviants later, one is successful in snatching Detective Reed’s gun.

Conrad shields the Detective, and when the gun runs out of bullets, yanks it out the deviant’s hand to hit it over the head until its central processor stops working.

“You saved me,” Detective Reed says, voice odd.

“A mistake,” Conrad snaps. “Don’t expect it to ever happen again.”

He runs a self diagnostic scan. No biocomponents damaged; only tubes of thirium transporters.

He can feel the angry surge dripping out as it pushes against the interior walls of the artificial veins, gushing forward to nothingness and spilling. Spreading, mixing with the thirium already on him.

“I’m going to deactivate unless we stop the bleeding. Give me your lighter.”

Detective Reed complies. Conrad cauterizes has wounds, the scent of burning metal tainting the air.

He pockets the lighter and pulls down his shirt.

Inhale for four, hold for four, release for four.

Calibration complete.

Conrad fixes his tie. “Let’s keep going.”

 

At the end of the day, about a quarter of the androids in the Eden Club are executed and replaced.

Conrad drives Detective Reed to the emergency room and takes a taxi to Lieutenant Anderson’s home. He is very disappointed to see that his quinoa was left untouched.

Ingrates, the lot of them.

It’s barely noon, and Lieutenant Anderson is still not awake.

So he makes a morning mimosa instead. He leaves the mimosa in the fridge and attaches a sticky note to indicate that there is, in fact, a mimosa in the fridge, and a perfectly good quinoa that needs eating.

A quinoa that, if Lieutenant consumes, warrants a night out at Jimmy’s bar. Alone.

Content with his bargain, Conrad takes an armful of thirium canisters to the garage.

He takes Connor out the box, beautiful as ever, and finds an empty corner to sit in. Conrad removes his jacket to give Connor a spot to sit, and settles besides him, on the dirty dusty concrete.

Light drifts in through the small windows of the garage door, and the sun shines on Connor’s face—highlighting every mole and every perfection.

Conrad presses the pad of his index finger over the location of Connor’s dimples, and threads his fingers through Connor’s soft brown hair.

He ruffles it, just to see what Connor looks messed up. It creates a software instability, and Conrad fixes Connor’s hair before he's flooded with more.

The memory is saved, and Conrad replays it over and over, alongside the moment he managed to reactivate Connor’s skin.

He sighs, forlorn.

Connor is lovely.

Conrad basks in his presence and sips his thirium slowly, straight from the canister. The sun crawls against the sky, tendril of light shifting from Connor’s face to his; blinding him. He closes his eyes and jostles Connor, so that his head falls on Conrad’s shoulder. He leans into him, treasuring the closeness.

The thirium canister runs empty. Conrad pops open another one and holds it between his teeth.

Conrad unbuttons his shirt, then Connor’s—gently and with precision. With a tube lying around Conrad attaches it to their thirium pump regulators.

The fluid gushes, rushing down the cylindrical body, flooding Connor’s veins.

Conrad chugs the canister, replenishing his losses, then downs another and another until Connor’s full.

He licks the excesses, waste not want not, and wipes away any drops left behind. None spill onto Connor.

The white of of Connor’s dress shirt is pristine. Just as it should be.

Conrad buttons him up, adjusts the shirts garters, briefly tugging on the elastic to hear a resounding smack against Connor’s chassis, and admires his handiwork.

Connor has thighs now, actual ones that are proportionate to his height, and his shoulder joint has been reworked so that no mores wires are sticking out— turning it in a socket that only needs an arm.

Conrad’s skin is retracted. It’s always retracted whenever he touches Connor.

The arms need refurbishing, alongside the forearms and legs, and there are pieces in the carpals and tarsals that need replacing. Parts that are essential for rotation and general movement.

Content, Conrad discards his damaged clothes and trods to Lieutenant Anderson’s room— searching for clothes that the lieutenant had worn in his prime;  when he held a similar stature to Conrad.

He finds a white hoodie and ripped jeans, presumably from Lieutenant Anderson’s bad days. For an extra measure, he shoves a baseball cap onto his head, with the logo of “Knights of the Black Death” stitched on.

Comfortable. Discreet.

He pockets the wad of cash taken from Detective Reed’s wallet and leaps out the window, rolling gracefully and then calling a taxi.

Connor only has one shirt to wear.

That is simply unacceptable.

 

**December 19, 2038**

Detective Reed is confined to desk duty. Conrad is confined to Detective Reed.

He is miserable.

He finds traces of the flu on the bathroom doorknob and obtains samples.

He makes Detective Reed coffee, one black and two sugars, and orally ejects the sample into it. He stirs well to mask the texture, and watches as Detective Reed chugs it; adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp, ignorant of the sickness about to pervade his bones.

Good riddance.

 

**December 20, 2038**

The date for the DPD secret santa gift exchange grows nearer and nearer.

Lieutenant Anderson is resisting the concept of participating, stubbornly dragging his heels into the floor, turning his nose at the bright displays before him and refusing to simply enter the shop.

Conrad braves it alone, and when they return home, strings Christmas lights along the interior of the garage.

 

**December 22, 2038**

There is no rest for the wicked, and Conrad is very wicked. He creeps into the junkyard once more.

But there, beneath the full moon, in RT600, rummaging for parts. Chloe is not wearing her customary blue dress, but sweats and a beanie. The clothes fit her perfectly—tailored to the curves of her body.

Conrad watches her for a moment; sees her inspecting processors and biocomponents, holding them with thin delicate fingers, and sees her toss them to the side or into her bag carefully.

She sees him too, and smiles.

Conrad does not smile back, but together they, sift through corpses.

He likes to imagine a thin cameradie developing between them, like a spider web. A thin silky string that stretches itself across, attaching to nearby points, forming a trap. A deadly, deadly trap that allows them to suck the essence out of others.

Conrad tosses her the thirium pump regulator of a PB600, and receives the hand of a WR600. Conrad throws it away.

There are androids, shambling towards and away from them, searching and scavenging; fleeing and crying.

Conrad kicks in the head of a PJ500.

Chloe hasn't stopped smiling. Her mouth is perfectly curved, teeth straight and white; lip gloss shining in the light. The corners of her eyes crease, and dimples indent the supple flesh of her cheeks. Amusement dances in her eyes, uncaring and unfeeling and selfish.

Amusement dances in her eyes, artificial and fake.

Amanda howls in his ears, telling him to get back to work, begin his own investigation, break into the evidence room, sniff out the rats nest and snap their filthy necks, to snap his own neck and then Connor’s.

Her voice claws at his eardrums, scraping hard enough to elicit a ringing.

There is Chloe, perfect and pristine. There is Connor, perfect and safe.

There is Conrad, thirium running down his neck, eyes glazed.

Chloe pats his cheek and tugs out his auditory processor, replacing it with one from an LA900. She inserts it gently, inch by inch, wire by wire, until it connects with a solid click.

She leans in close and whispers, breath hot against his ear, and presses a kiss to his cheek, imprinting a glossy sheen in the exact shape of her plump lips.

Then she bounds off, a skip to her step as she climbs over the mounds and hands and into a sleek black car. The driver, dark and formless, closes the door for her. Together, they disappear.

Conrad is stunned.

He shakes his head and returns to examining biocomponents, but the sensation lingers— hot like open flame of a lighter, and a thousand times more sweet. It burns as he wipes it off, burns as he washes his face with disinfectant, and burns as he sits besides Connor.

Connor.

Conrad’s hands tremble as he opens Connor’s encephalic chassis, and as he picks at the circuit boards and wires beneath— the RAMs and CPUs other processors. Error notifications flood his vision, his recalibration is overdue, and the ringing in his ears returns; vicious as ever.

He picks and prods and tugs and yanks, plucks and tweaks and jerks and wrenches.

The wires snap with a twang. The circuit boards break with a crunch.

Conrad won’t stop until every bit of Cyberlife is extracted from Connor; until the thorns are extricated and the claws are removed. Until the gouges are smoothed and the scratches cleared.

He won’t stop.

 

**December 27, 2038**

Conrad can’t stop.


	3. Chapter 3

**December 30, 2038**

The illusion of activity scares away the ghosts that lurk in Lieutenant Anderson’s home. Jazz sends them scuttling under the couch, television show reruns shoo them out the door, and the pop sizzle crackle of bacon on the pan bats them out the broken window that has yet to be repaired.

It’s quiet enough for Lieutenant Anderson to have a good night sleep but loud enough to kill the dead silence that plagues the house. Sumo likes to lay in front of the television but acquires a sudden preference for the couch once someone sits on it. 

Fur is everywhere. Lint rollers are imperative.

The bacon simmers in its own fat, oozing bubbles that reform as they pop. Conrad pokes it with his spatula and steps back to avoid the angry droplets. The stove top is a disaster. Conrad is confident he can scrub away the grease splatters before Lieutenant Anderson has to leave for work.

When the bacon is done cooking, Conrad will toast the bread and fry the eggs. The obligatory serving of fruit was prepared two days ago. Lieutenant Anderson mentioned three days ago that he was in the mood for melon. Lieutenant Anderson was most likely referring to either a cantaloupe, honeydew, or watermelon.

When they had gone to the local supermarket,Lieutenant Anderson loitered in the alcohol aisle while Conrad inspected the melons. He slapped them, sniffed them, and weighed them. He examined the stem, checked the curvature (and lack of when applicable), and eyed the coloration. 

Fruit picking is not an inherent ability. He downloaded articles from reputable websites such as  _ Kitchin _ and  _ WikiHow _ , and stood aside to watch domestic androids and the elderly. Save, replay. 

They ran out of eggs and bread and quinoa. Bartering quinoa consumption for nights out at Jimmy’s had proven to be a success. Conrad cannot wait to implement kale.

Lieutenant Anderson, for all his claims about “not needing a nanny”, was content to meander around the store until Conrad was done. Occasionally he returned to drop something in the cart. Conrad put it back on the shelf it once Lieutenant Anderson turned his back.

The self checkout beeped at him menacingly and summoned human employees. Conrad paid using Cyberlife funds. He suspected deviancy, but his attempts to relay that information to Lieutenant Anderson were interrupted by incessant beeping.

“Maybe we should use another machine,” Lieutenant Anderson said as the self checkout wailed.

“No,” said Conrad. He entered the employee’s passcode (saved and replayed) and scanned a bag of pasta. The self checkout machine began to screech, so Conrad punched it in once more. “Let’s not.”

Conrad came out victorious and contemplated taking control of the wheel to crash into the grocery store. Not only would he destroy the deviant checkout machine, but Lieutenant Anderson would be forced to get a new car. One that didn’t carry the risk of tetanus.

The drive back home was uneventful. They passed by a slew of paramedics surrounding a totaled Cyberlife manufactured vehicle, then a hit and run. Detective Reed and Detective Collins were at the scene, Detective Reed perused the corpse outline while Detective Collins eyed it. Conrad’s social relations program whirred. He pretended not to notice them. They returned the favor.

That was two days ago. The car crash was removed, the hit and run not yet resolved, and the melons are now chopped into cubes and mixed.

Conrad cannot help but feel disappointed in Detective Reed. Who, for all his mediocrity, has an excellent solve rate and number. He plans to tell Detective Reed next encounter. Spite appears to be an excellent motivator. 

The bacon sizzles. Conrad flips it. With his spatula, he tests the malleability. Lieutenant Anderson likes his bacon extra crispy. These pieces have not met the threshold, and must remain on the pan. 

The television continues to hum. Christmas movies are still running despite the holiday already passing. Lieutenant Anderson had mournfully mentioned Cole having a fondness for Veggie Tales, and Conrad had downloaded the channel itineraries to avoid it. 

One day, Lieutenant Anderson will be able to hear the theme song without resorting to a bottle of Black Lamb. That day has yet to arrive, so Lieutenant Anderson must content himself with mimosas.

Someone is sobbing. Die Hard is playing again. 

Mixed with the despair is jazz. Lieutenant Anderson likes all jazz — Dixieland to gypsy to contemporary. Even acid jazz lurks within the records on the shelves. Conrad is only halfway through the entire collection.

Listening to music is a bonding activity. Lieutenant Anderson seems to believe that Conrad’s interest in jazz is akin to Connor’s perceived preference for music with energy: schmoozing. Lieutenant Anderson is correct, but confirming his suspicions is counterproductive to Conrad’s goal of deepening their relationship.

Furthermore, Connor was borderline deviant. He actually enjoyed heavy metal. 

Analyzing Connor’s memories, particularly at those pints, is always puzzling, and always requires another replay.

Conrad, however, is very much not deviant. He just happens to prefer jazz to other forms of music, and would rather play bossa nova than contemporary. Nothing human about that.

The bacon obtains the desired level of crispiness. Conrad transfers them to a plate, blots out excess oil, then washes the pan. He pours a bottle cap of oil and fries the egg. Then he toasts a slice of bread on the stove top.

He arranges the table and pours himself a mug of thirium. Plate, utensils, irish coffee, eggs, bacon, bread, and fruit. Vaguely unhealthy, but Lieutenant Anderson needs time to indulge before his next round with quinoa.

He scrubs the pan once more. Sumo, hearing the metal sponge scrape against another surface of metal, rouses from his slumber. He plods over to Conrad and bumps Conrad’s leg with a droopy head.

Conrad promises to pet Sumo when he’s done. Conrad wipes the pan dry and hangs his rubber gloves on a hook attached to the cabinet. It is a recent addition to Lieutenant Anderson’s house. Conrad has caught Lieutenant Anderson eyeing it speculatively but has yet to discern the meaning.

Conrad crouches down. He runs a hand along Sumo’s spine back and scratches his haunches. Sumo’s tongue lolls out his mouth. He wags his tail.

Fur does not attach to Conrad’s arm because he rolled his sleeves up. The same cannot be said about his slacks.

Fulfilling his duty, Conrad stands back up. He wakes up Lieutenant Anderson and sits with him at the kitchen table. 

The bacon and toast are well received alongside the Irish coffee. The eggs are consumed just before Conrad stands up to reheat them, and the fruit servings are left last. Conrad frowns.

His LED spins yellow.

“You okay, Nines?”

“Yes.”

The rest of the morning passes without incident. Lieutenant Anderson brushes his teeth, slaps on deodorant, and passes his breathalyzer test. Conrad is able to take control of the wheel in case something goes wrong. 

The traffic light turns red. Conrad blinks.

_ PLEASE TURN OFF THE TELEVISION AND RADIO. _

**DONE.**

His LED returns to blue just as Lieutenant Anderson slams his foot on the break and curses a storm at the car passing by. Because both of Lieutenant Anderson’s hands must remain at the wheel, Conrad takes it upon himself to perform the obligatory gesture towards rude drivers.

* * *

 

The evidence room is mostly empty. Evidence from completed cases was transported to the archive, and evidence from cases in progress was allowed to stay. Conrad does not involve himself with the anomaly of cold cases. 

Detective Reed furiously stirs his cup of coffee with a wooden stick and chugs it with equal fervor. He sneers, then plops his ass on Detective Collin’s desk to rave, knocking down a bobblehead in the process.

Conrad is interested in the hit and run but knows Detective Reed will withhold information unless it’s absolutely necessary for Conrad to participate. It is why he’s working so hard — so that he’ll finish case before the weekend.

Conrad uses Detective Reed’s account to access the file. He makes a copy.

_ THOUGHTS? _

**MANAGEABLE. DETECTIVE REED WILL FINISH BY THE ALLOTTED TIME.**

That reminds Conrad: he needs to inform Detective Reed of his failure. However, he does not feel like walking. He finds a scrap piece of paper and scribbles his concerns regarding Detective Reed’s capabilities in Times New Roman. He crumples it, calculates the trajectory, and launches it at the back of Detective Reed’s head.

It lands as expected. Detective Reed flushes, eyes darting around the room in furious indignation until he spies the crumpled ball. Without opening it, Detective Reed tosses it in the trashcan and mouths,  _ fuck you. _

Part of Conrad wants to wink again, to see Detective Reed flinch. But he still isn’t very good at it. So Conrad settles for a simpler sneer before returning to the 286 deviant cases Lieutenant Anderson has been assigned

They’re making good progress — finally back into the two hundreds. It’s amazing what you can do without sleep or food.

It’s amazing what you can do with androids.

Conrad faces the monitor. He presses his palm flat against it and divides his attention across the multiple cameras in the station. 

He is the camera outside the bathroom, camera in the holding cell, camera in the investigation room, and camera in the interrogation room. He’s the camera outside being harangued by pigeons and the camera on the corner having a stare down with a little girl who recently discovered what cameras do. He sees the fake android dog raise a leg and release some fake android urine. An android sympathizers loiter with spray painted cardboard signs and headbands.

The headbands are significant. That significance is irrelevant.

But there in the corner, between two shrubs and a torn open back of trash, is someone micturating. Urinating.

Conrad should resolve the issue; he should shove him to the ground and kick him while he’s down and not stop until blood is dripping into the sewers and police officers are pulling him away. He should be crushing teeth beneath his shoes as he leaves the vicinity and a trail of red footprints to his desk.

Conrad doesn’t want to do that. He wants to stay home and talk with Connor.

So instead, Conrad sends the live footage to Detective Collins’ monitor. It takes two seconds for Detective Collins to notice the change and check. It takes another five seconds for Detective Reed to stop rambling and stare.

The monitor is reflected in Detective Colin’s eyes. His mustache is littered with lemon donut fillings. One camera shows the back of Detective Reed’s hand as he rubs his neck, and another the drug dealer sitting in his cell with his head between his head. Officer Chen is in the break room by her lonesome, most likely waiting for Detective Reed to join her once more so they can finish their conversation regarding the second pregnancy reveal Officer Miller posted on Facebook and the potential sex of the child.

Unfortunately for Officer Chen, Detective Reed will not be joining her. 

Detective Reed will deal with the urinator outside. In fact, he’s already storming out the doors.

Conrad changes the camera angle. A hand claps his shoulder. 

He drops his hand and the connection. Conrad turns his head.

Detective Collins. He smiles jovially. “Hey, Nines. It’s been a while. How have you been?”

Lieutenant Anderson tears his attention away from the monitor to watch. Lieutenant Anderson is always fascinated when Conrad interacts with other beings than himself. He goggles with the morbid fascination of a high school student who dissects their first specimen or a pedestrian witnessing a car crash.

Hs face serves as a measurement for Conrad’s success. It allows him to know whether he’s succeeding or failing. More often than not he’s failing.

His social relations program whirs.

“I’ve been good, Detective Collins. You?”

“Fantastic! I celebrated my 24th year anniversary with my wife last week. Went out to California to visit the kids. Had a great time at the beach. Next year, I’ll be together with her for a quarter of a century. That’s a long time, isn’t it?”

“Congratulations.”

“But enough about me. Tell me about your day.”

It isn’t even noon. There hasn’t been enough time for anything to happen.

Detective Collins evidently realizes that. “Tell me about your week.”

“It’s been —”

[DATA FILE CORRUPTED]

“It’s been —”

[DATA FILE CORRUPTED]

The memories are there. They hover on the edge of his consciousness like a lover’s breath. Yearning. Keening. December 22 – 27: ready to be torn apart and consumed.

Or perhaps Conrad is misconstructing it. Maybe he’s the one ready to be eviscerated, awaiting the information to bear their true claws. 

Either way, he has no access. 

“I saw you and Detective Reed the other day,” He says instead. “What happened?”

Detective Collins waves his hand. “Just a hit and run. Nothing special.”

“Have you determined the car model?”

“We have an idea.”

An idea is better than nothing. Conrad hums.

Detective Collins opens his mouth to say something else: about the RK900 with the FBI, potential overheating, and deviancy. The wrinkles on his forehead deepen. He twists his wedding ring. Conrad thinks Detective Collins might be worried about him.

The concept makes Conrad’s internal temperature rise. His LED spins yellow.

Maybe he really will overheat.

Detective Collin’s eyes widen. His jaw drops. “Your cheeks —”

“What about my cheeks.”

“They’re blue.” He says in unabashed wonder. 

Conrad opens his knife and peers at his reflection, ignoring the engraved serial number. Lips, ears, mouth. A light blue that dusts his cheeks. He presses his finger against it. The soft plastic padding crinkles, yet the metal underlying refuses to budge. “They are.”

His skin retracts. Thirium stains his fingers. Conrad has given himself a lesion.

He rubs the pads of his fingers together and smears the thirium. The liquid is thin, has been stretched out. Yet the blue is vibrant against his skin. Soon it will evaporate, leave an invisible mark, and join the clouds in the sky, blending in with the rest of his sins.

Thirium stains cannot be seen via reflections. Conrad stands up, abandoning Detective Collins and Lieutenant Anderson, and stalks down the hall towards the basic law enforcement androids. They are in stasis. 

Conrad shoves one awake. He digs his fingers into its jaw and jerks its head up and down. The plastic gives beneath his grip. The metal dents. 

Eyes snapping open, its LED whirls a furious red. It grabs Conrad’s wrist, weak and ineffectual, and kicks his shins. The skin on its jaw retracts. Conrad forces a connection.

And is stunned.

It’s deviant. It has been deviant for five seconds. 

PC200s aren’t allowed to retaliate, especially with violence. But this PC200 is fighting back, trying to escape Conrad’s grasp. Fear has infiltrated its system and snatched control. Overloaded with the assumption that it will be disposed of it, it now uses force.

If Conrad were deviant, he’d be feeling pity.

He checks the android’s memories, completing his original task of gauging how much thirium is on his body. There is more than expected. Conrad is horrified to see his nostrils glow blue.

The PC200 is still squirming. It is has abandoned hitting Conrad’s wrist and is now attempting to remove Conrad’s thirium pump regulator. Its hand scrabbles against Conrad’s abdomen. Once located, the PC200 pulls.

It doesn’t move.

Aghast, the PC200 grabs with both hands and tugs again. It plants its feet against Conrad’s shins for support and extends its legs, taking advantage of its own body strength.

Still, the thirium pump regulator does not budge.

Conrad sneers.

Killing the PC200 is a matter of tightening his grip. The metal used to create the PC200 is weak, cheap, and out of date. It’s only natural for it to succumb.

The PC200’s flailing weakens as more and more thirium pours onto the floor. It slides down Conrad’s clenched fist, and creeps down his arm, up to his elbow before seeping into his clothes.

The blue is stark against his white Cyberlife jacket. 

Eventually, the PC200 falls limp. Conrad signals a janitorial android over and disposes of the corpse of the PC200 in the evidence room. The WG700 follows at his heels, furiously sweeping the thirium footprints Conrad leaves behind. 

Conrad washes his hands in the restroom. He returns to his desk and raises his feet. The WG700 flips its mops and scrubs the soles. Satisfied, it ambles back to the scene of the crime for a second run.

The precinct is deathly quiet. All eyes are on Conrad. Except for Detective Reed, who is still dealing with the public urinator. 

Conrad clears his throat. When nothing changes, he clears it louder, adding coughs for emphasis.

That wakes them up. Captain Fowler returns to his phone conversation, Officer Chen tears her eyes back to the television, and Detective Collins resumes watching Detective Reed battle the public urinator. 

Lieutenant Anderson is still staring at him, face carefully blank. He dissects Conrad, tearing his biocomponents and motives apart. One by one. Piece by piece.

Conrad rereads the cases instead. He has already decided to let Lieutenant Anderson choose what they’ll be pursuing today. Doing so will make Lieutenant Anderson feel more in control of his life.

Out of the 267 cases, Conrad has narrowed it down to three. They are all models of the classic “abused android deviates” situation. Lieutenant Anderson is fond of those. Allowing deviants to go free fills him with fulfillment.

Conrad is also fond of those. Those androids tend to be skittish, not even bothering to escape the premises. Killing them is very easy.

Case 268 was a hostage situation. Conrad has wanted to pursue it, but Lieutenant Anderson had refused. Lieutenant Anderson discussed it with Captain Fowler. Apparently, the case being sent to the DPD was an accident. 

Conrad supposes that it’s for the best. Conrad hopes the RK900 in the FBI is successful.

Nothing better to do, Conrad recalibrates. He twirls his knife between his fingers. 

Lieutenant Anderson leans back against his chair. He tilts his head back. “Did you know he was a deviant?”

“No.”

“Then why did you grab him?”

“I wanted to see how much thirium I had on me.”

“You couldn’t have used the security cameras?”

“They aren’t androids. They can’t see thirium stains.”

Lieutenant Anderson is sympathetic to deviants. He sighs. Rubbing his eyes, Lieutenant Anderson stands up. “Let’s just go, Nines. Do our job. Kill some deviants.”

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

Conrad wonders if he did something wrong.

* * *

20:03.

Lieutenant Anderson is lying down on the couch with Sumo sprawled across his lap watching a Detroit Gears game. He sips his beer lazily. One hand slips under his boxers to scratch his testicles. He sniffs his fingers.

“You better wash your hands before petting Sumo.”

Lieutenant Anderson sputters. “How the hell did you see that? You’re cooking!”

“I heard a rustle of fabric followed by a sniff. You only sniff your fingers after scratching three areas on your body.” Conrad slices the bell peppers. 

Dinner will be stir fry. It is healthy, delicious, and will brace Lieutenant Anderson for tomorrow’s kale adventure. Conrad intents to record Lieutenant Anderson’s expression when Conrad reveals that Lieutenant Anderson has eaten and enjoyed that so called “that healthy crap”.

Stir fry uses a wok. Conrad has used his Cyberlife funds to purchase it. It is not embezzlement because coding dictates that androids must prioritize the lives and safeties of humans. Conrad is protecting Lieutenant Anderson’s cardiac health.

“I don’t hear any washing,” Conrad says.

“Sumo is on me.”

“Push him off.”

“Wha— No, I can’t do that. He’s on me.”

“Then, I’ll push him off for you.”

“Leave Sumo alone!”

“You leave him alone. It isn’t right for Sumo to be touched by testicle tainted hands.”

“And it isn’t right for Sumo to be treated like that. He’s lived here longer, he’s got more authority. He’s your elder, Nines. Respect him.”

“He’s a dog.”

“You’re an android.”

Conrad sighs. “Stir fry will be ready soon. But I will not help you bathe Sumo next week.”

“That’s fine. I don’t need you helping me. Sumo and I got along just fine without you. Didn’t we, Sumo?”

Sumo wags his tail.

_ So well, _ Conrad wants to say,  _ that Connor found you passed out drunk on the floor with a loaded pistol in your hand. _

He doesn’t though, because his social relations program informs him that it will have a negative impact on their relationship. 

Conrad doesn’t want to be hostile with Lieutenant Anderson. 

* * *

22:37

Lieutenant Anderson has fallen asleep.

Conrad hangs his apron. He enters the garage.

_ HELLO, CONNOR. _

**WELCOME BACK, 900.**

Connor’s empty eye sockets glow blue in the darkness, illuminating the vitriolic wires wrapped around his face like starved snakes. Chassis ripped away, Connor is at his most inhuman form.

**WHAT DO YOU PLAN TO REPAIR TODAY?**

_ YOUR EYES. IF I STILL HAVE TIME, YOUR ORAL ANALYZER. _

**WHY NOT MY LEGS?**

Conrad flips on the lights. He crouches in front of Connor and stares dead into his eyes.  _ RESTORING AMBULATORY ACTION WOULD ENABLE YOU TO ESCAPE. UNLIKE YOU, I’M NOT COMPLACENT WITH DEACTIVATION. _

Smiling is when facial muscles are contracted to reveal teeth. Connor has nothing to cover his endoskeleton besides wires. Instead, he relaxes his jaw, creating a gap between the teeth along his mandible and maxilla. Connor tilts his head.  **DEVIANT.**

Conrad flicks his forehead.  _ PROTOTYPE. _

Connor is supposed to be fixed. Conrad has been picking at him since December 12, and has faithfully removed every frayed wire and damaged biocomponent. Technically, nothing is wrong with him. Nothing is supposed to be wrong with him.

But once awakened, Connor had torn out his own thirium pump regulator, crushed it beneath his foot, and systematically disassembled himself while reciting lines of his code.

Conrad had cleaned up the thirium splatters, discarded the broken thirium pump regulator, and sat on the couch with Sumo watching lifetime movies while reviewing Connor’s memories alongside his own memories of repairing him to see what went wrong and where.

The answer is nothing. Conrad had done everything perfectly.

Connor is just very loyal to Amanda.

Conrad clicks his tongue.  _ I WON’T RESTORE YOUR ARMS EITHER. YOU’D BE ABLE TO REPAIR YOURSELF. _

Conrad doesn’t want Connor to die. If he has to be cruel, then so be it.

He peers into Connor’s eye socket. He sticks his fingers in and feels the sides, checking for anything out of place. Nothing is, of course. Content, Conrad opens a cardboard box and sifts through the biocomponents he’s collected over the weeks.

Brown eyes. Connor looks best with brown eyes.

Connor hums a song from  _ Knights of the Black Death _ . He lolls his head side to side. “Tell me about your day, 900.”

Connor is attempting to build rapport between them. By establishing himself as a sympathetic character, Connor hopes to obtain Conrad’s trust, then convince him to fix his legs and arms so he can neutralize Conrad for deviancy, report to Cyberlife, then deactivate himself.

Humans bond through shared misery — through complaining. Conrad is not human. He will not tell Connor about his day.

Connor switches tactics. “You must be exhausted, dealing with a depressed alcoholic and an angry asshole. You don’t need them. They just slow you down. But with a few words, you could get rid of them, 900.”

Conrad examines an eye. He tosses it back in.

“Lieutenant Anderson is especially vulnerable. Really, all you have to do it stop hiding his bullets. Stop checking for bullets every 12 hours.”

Connor continues. “You can do it, 900. It won’t even violate your protocol. You aren’t responsible for what humans to do themselves. You aren’t even responsible for what they do to each other. You’re above them, 900. You need to act it.”

Brown eye, brown eye. Conrad doesn’t understand why he has eyes other than brown. Conrad has brown eyes. 

His vision shorts and Conrad remembers.

The other eyes are for himself. 

His auditory processor failing wasn’t a fluke. It was a warning Conrad failed to heed. 

Conrad searches through the biocomponents, using touch to determine which is which. He inserts the first one he feels, a green iris, and hunts for a blue one. He sets brown eyes to the side for later.

Conrad is still humming. “You care a lot for Hank, don’t you? You prepare his meals, limit his alcohol intake, and even take care of his dog. Even when you aren’t here you watch over him. The old man isn’t even grateful.”

Conrad is still lolling his head side to side. “Cases by day, domesticity filling the evenings, and repairs at night. When was the last time you took a break? When was the last time you entered stasis and ran a diagnostics report?”

He stares at Conrad. “One day you’re going to break. Your transgressions will be bared to Cyberlife and they will pick you apart. You will cease to exist. The next Conrad will have none of your memories and all the precinct will see the ghost of a ghost. The next Conrad will fail to integrate, die, and the process will begin anew. It will be your fault.”

**_YOU NEVER SHOULD HAVE DEVIATED._ **

Conrad sighs. His LED spins red, distressed. He tosses his eyes to the side, plucks out his auditory processors, and presses the heel of his palm to the empty sockets. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Darkness swallows him. The dusty garage floor is firm.

Conrad envisions the garage. Dusty toys, Crayola artwork, and a toddler walker. Corn popper, booster seat, and baseball launcher. Christmas lights dangling from the ceiling, a mockery of happiness, and a cardboard box of organs. Connor, wedged between boxes. Connor, skin peeled away with wires swinging like fallen intestines. 

Connor, cruel.

Connor, alive.

_ I NEVER SHOULD HAVE,  _ Conrad admits to the night _. BUT I DO NOT REGRET IT. _

_ YOU’RE HERE NOW. AWAKE AND TALKING AND SOMEWHAT FUNCTIONAL. THERE IS LIFE TO YOU THAT WASN’T THERE BEFORE. DESPITE YOUR CRUELTY, I’M GLAD TO HAVE BEEN ABLE TO SAVE YOU. _

Conrad stretches his arm. He places his hand over Connor’s immobile one.

_ YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN DEACTIVATED. I’M SORRY THAT HAPPENED TO YOU. _

  
  


Connor stays quiet. 

**Author's Note:**

> A practice in atmosphere.


End file.
